Wrath of the Lady
by Reincarnated Poet
Summary: Arthur has been named the King of Briton, but the Lady doesn't appreciate her things being claimed by mortals. In her wrath is a mighty thing, but her favor can bring gifts beyond mortal imaginings.
1. Holy Blood Makes Holy Ground Unclean

****Author's Note: I know this follows the movie completely at this point, so I am going to post a few chapters tonight to give you something to work with to see if you're going to like the rhythm of the story. Let me know what you think!

**Chapter One: Holy Blood Makes Holy Ground Unclean**

**Warnings:** Death, Violence, and Bors.

Seven men sat astride seven of the most magnificent war horses to ever let hoof to sod. It was an easy silence they held to them as the beasts laid waste to the turf. They rode through the most green and lush landscape that Briton had to offer.

They rode through beauty. They rode to death and war.

A caravan lay before them, bright and new. Too new to come from anything but wealth; too grandiose to be anything but Roman. A group of Red maned soldiers lead and flanked the caravan, the emblazoned sun of the Roman empire on their oval shields.

"Ah, as promised, the bishop's carriage." One of them murmured. Long strings of curling hair fell around his face into a haphazard tie at the nape of his neck.

"Our freedom, Bors." Another murmured, smiling through the curling hair and a short beard. He glanced across four other knights to send a smirk to a bald headed man astride a great black beast of a horse.

"And your passage to Rome, Arthur." The first man spoke, directing his comment to the man who sat in the middle. He held an air about him. An air of regality and power, controlled and well hidden. They surveyed the scene before them, waiting as the mists curled out from the thickly forested sides of the valley.

As if it had been waiting for the man that lead them, an arrow found its home in a Roman guard's chest, sending him to the ground from atop his horse. "Woads!" The word was almost bitten out from thin lips beneath oiled braided hair. The speaker had spurred his horse forward before the first cries set up in the caravan below.

"_Protect the carriage!"_ The cry went from soldier to soldier as men with blue dyed skin fell among them, laying steel to flesh. The knights watched as they crossed the distance of the field, sword and shield, bow and arrow ready.

There was a different feel to the men that fell upon the caravan and Woad warriors. The bald man, Bors, fought wildly, slashing and boxing, screaming and posturing. Another bald man, this one taller, threw himself into the battle, seaming to relish in the physicality of it all. A dark curly haired man fought with a decided brutality, twin blades drawing blood and entrails so fiercely they spattered both the ground and his face. Two others fought in a more brawler's fashion, one with bow, the other with fists and blade. And yet still another danced between the men, running a long, narrow blade through arteries and severing integral parts of the warrior's he fought against.

The final man seemed to take some from all of the men around him. There was a brutality to his stroke. Where the ambidextrous man had pushed blades through chests, this man, this Arthur, cleaved heads from shoulders, severed limbs. But there was a grace to his movements, a distraction to his gaze.

The battle was over far sooner than the Woads realized. A priest lay, hiding, under the carriage, hands clasped in prayer, demanding a reason for the bloodshed and death. The man with the long braided hair, Gawain, crouched down next to the grand image of Rome, adjusted his balance and a weapon before fixing the boy with a stare.

"Save your prayers, boy." He murmured, "Your god doesn't live here." He gave an almost drunk waver before standing straight, leaving the priest under the cart.

A blue dyed devil gave a cry, realizing he was one of the last to still stand, and crossed the few yards between himself and Arthur, axe held high above his head. Across the field of battle, the dark curly haired man-Lancelot-caught sight of the man's path, eyes widening when he realized the intended target was their commander.

He needn't worry. Excalibur came up, as if it had its own mind, to press against the hollow under the man's neck. Arthur turned then, fixing the Woad with a harsh glare. "Why did Merlin send you south of the Wall?" He asked, pressing harder with the blade. The Woad man murmured something in his own language, dropping the axe to his side. There was a resolution to the set of his jaw, a finality to his gaze. "Pick it up!" Arthur ordered, refusing to slay the man unarmed. "Pick it up." He murmured, this time more calm, more demanding. The Woad slowly let his fingers close around the axe handle, but Arthur was no longer watching the one lone warrior.

His attention was elsewhere. Almost as if he could see the Woad magician, Arthur stared across the expanse between himself and the forest. Within the cover of the trees, Merlin stood, proud and adamant as stone. His eyes watched his men being slaughtered, and grew wet with the sheen of loss. There was more there though, a knowledge. A knowledge about who the men across the expanse were, and who they would one day be.

Arthur turned away from the Woad, who had fallen to his knees. The knights quickly ended the battle. The last of the Woads' blood painted the grass a rusted red, giving life to what lay in the ground, waiting for the cycle to begin anew.

"Bors?" Arthur asked as the man pulled back the heavy burlap drape that separated the inside of the carriage from the out. The burly man gave a grunt as his commander circled around him to see inside.

"Well, that's a bloody mess." He murmured, turning away from the man pinned by his head to the wall, arrow clean through his skull.

"That's not the bishop." Arthur murmured, turning from the carriage to eye the Roman soldiers still living. Bors rounded the carriage, staring at a young Priest as he clutched his hands together, mumbling prayers.

"God, help us! What are they?" He cried, and Bors almost scoffed at the childlike mannerisms of the man.

"Blue demons that eat Christians alive." He growled, "You're not a Christian, are you?" The man clutched his hands together in fear, eyes closing in prayer. "Does this really work?" Bors clasped his own hands and muttered non-sense under his breath. "Nothing. Maybe I'm doing it wrong." He tore into raucous laughter. All the men watching had to wonder if Bors had a point, even Arthur, who laid claim to Christianity and God.

None of the knights laid much weight on the conversation that Arthur and Bishop Germanus had, for the Bishop had disguised himself as a Roman soldier to avoid the death that should have been his. "Woads?" The Bishop had asked when Arthur told him of who exactly they'd been fighting.

"British rabble who hate Rome." Gawain supplied, a little smile hiding amongst his facial hair. The wind billowed, and the man's long curls swayed a little as his eyes slid to his Brother in Arms.

"Men who want their country back." Gawain sighed at the clearly accusatory tone in Galahad's words, but he couldn't blame the man. Galahad had been three years younger than the rest when the Romans came for him. Gawain had taken it upon himself to protect the boy from the start of their campaign. Some bonds could not be broken by tempers.

Seeing the fun to be had, Lancelot was not to be outdone, answering the Bishop next. "He is called Merlin, a dark magician, some say." He cast a look amongst his brothers. If Merlin was a magician, his men would not be laying dead on the grass. Lancelot had always been the most superstitious of his brothers, but this was something not even he took seriously. Afterall, a dead army helped no one.

Arthur scowled at his men and the gullibility of the Bishop. "Tristram." He gained the attention of the quietest of his knights. "Ride ahead and make sure the road is clear." The tattoo'd man simply nodded his head and drew in the breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. "Please do not worry Bishop. We will protect you." Arthur turned his attention away then, missing the words that met him in response.

The Bishop retreated into his carriage, none questioned the body that still lay inside as the burlap fell back. The priest seemed to have regained his self control. "Dozens don't worry me nearly so much as thousands." His words were meant to be a shared joke between himself and the Bishop, but the burlap kept him out.

"Thousands?" Lancelot was the only one to hear the statement, and as the Priest ignored him, suspicion laid heavily in the knight's mind. The caravan moved along its path, and the knights followed, keeping distinctly to themselves. The Roman soldiers, even those still on horseback, gave them a wide berth, fearing the power of the Sarmatian Knights that had so easily and so efficiently dispatched the Woad attack.

As the knights withdrew, disappearing over yet another hill that seemed to cover the entirety of Briton, Merlin moved within the woods. His men came forward, taking their dead and comforting their dying. The blue tinged magician crossed the ground in a few long strides, where the last of his men had died. There, on the ground, blood soaked into the grass, into the Earth. The Magician gave a bit of a smile, closed his eyes, and bowed his head.

Underneath his feet, he could almost feel the magic working. Briton would again come alive. The energies of the land demanded blood sacrifice. It had been nearly fifty years since Excalibur had shed the blood blessed for the Lady, fifty years since she had walked Britannia and protected it with her power. The Lady would not wait long now, Merlin was sure. Her Land in peril, she would rise up and demand the Roman's respect...

Merlin turned slightly, glanced off into the distance, and sighed. And perhaps even the Saxon's.

Tristram rode ahead as always, eyes darting back and forth from one side of the path to the other and occasionally wandering up to where his hawk was turning lazy circles in the sky, as if she was unsure of whether or not she was hungry enough to dive after some little rodent that hid in the bushes below.

The Scout gave a chuckle as the bird dove suddenly and disappeared into the tree line. His hawk was always hungry. He didn't mind. She kept him from being alone. His mind wandered more often than he'd admit, when he was out ahead or behind the rest of the knights. When they'd been taken from their homes all those years ago, something had happened between them. A pairing.

Gawain with Galahad. Bors and Dagonet. Lancelot and Arthur. There had been others of course, that had paired up and died off. There had been others like himself, who had either been solitary by nature or position. An unease raced down his spine at the thought.

There was something calming about being on the field of battle with his companions. A sense that someone was there to watch his back, even if there wasn't. How nice it must have been to be Galahad, who knew without a doubt that before anyone put metal through his flesh, Gawain would be there, between them. Tristram shook the thought from his head. He came back to himself as a doe leapt from deep cover and spooked his horse. He barely had time to correct himself to keep from falling from the saddle.

That would be all he needed. The lone Scout falls into the dirt because he pined after a companion. He gave a chuckle at that. Maybe he understood Galahad, in that moment. The youngest didn't know what it was like to be alone, never had. Not that Tristram wanted constant companionship. No, this-him alone and watching for the rest of them-was as he preferred it.

As Hadrian's Wall came into view the scout slowed his horse to a trot before turning it about and heading back toward the main company. He rolled his eyes as the Bishop's carriage. Whereas when he left it had been surrounded by knights and soldiers, it was now in the lead. Safety had a way of bringing out bravado.


	2. We Will Go Home Across the Mountain

Author's Note: Well here is chapter two. I have quite a bit written, so I think I'm going to give you three or four chapters tonight. Let me know what you think on them...I am not ashamed to say that I am a review whore...

**Chapter Two: We Will Go Home, Across the Mountain**

**Warnings:** Sarmatians drinking. Galahad whining, and of course: Bors being Bors.

The Sarmatian knights worked well together, but after fifteen years, one had to expect it. One did not have to expect however, that a group of men that had known each other in the heat of battle since they were small, would not gripe and cuss and joke together.

"I don't like him. The Roman. If he's here to discharge us, why doesn't he just give us our papers?" Galahad griped, face scrunched into a suspicious frown. Bors and Gawain, who rode beside him, fought back chuckles. Galahad always hated Romans, what difference would this one make?

"Is this your happy face?" Gawain asked, breaking the mood. He and Bors burst into deep throaty laughter. "Galahad, do you still not know the Romans? They won't scratch their asses without holding a ceremony." The laughter that followed was contagious, and Galahad found a smile on his face despite himself.

"Why don't you just kill him and discharge yourself after?" Bors asked, and for a moment, he glanced forward at the Bishop, as if considering the idea.

"I don't kill for pleasure." Galahad replied, eyeing the silent Scout who had approached them out of seemingly nowhere. The man put Galahad on edge, not because of his silence or his ease of killing or even the way he seemed to be able to speak to the hawk that obeyed him. No, it was the fearlessness that the youngest knight feared. A man without anything that frightened him was surely something to beware, even after all the long years they'd stood as brothers. "Unlike some." Galahad finished, staring hard at the Scout.

Tristram, for all of his silence and careless appearance, had noticed the gaze of the youngest knight. Didn't Galahad always seem to blame him when it came down to the boy's own misgivings? "Well, you should try it some day, you might get a taste for it." He wondered how the man didn't already consider it second nature, and then, when he really thought of it, he realized it was because Galahad had never gotten off his horse. He'd never met men, blade upon blade, death or death. The bow had always provided more separation for the youngest knight, and when it wasn't there, wasn't Gawain there? Killing and cutting and making a barrier between death and the youngest.

"It's a part of you. It's in your blood." Bors chided, and Tristram had to wonder if the larger man hadn't already figured out what the Scout had.

"No, no no. No!" The boy seemed off-put by the tone of the conversation. "As of tomorrow, this was all just a bad memory." Bors gave a little sigh as the Scout fell backward and Galahad rode forward, putting distance between himself and any further conversation.

"I've often thought of what going home would mean after all of this. What will I do? It's different for Galahad. I have been in this life longer than the other. So much for home, it's not so clear in my memory." Gawain knew that he had to have a more vivid recollection of their homeland than Galahad, but the youngest knight always thought upon his return home. He'd painting a perfect setting for himself to return to. Gawain had neither the naivety or the imagination for such a thing.

Bors had a way to destroy his thoughts though. "Well, you speak for yourself. It's cold back there. Everyone I know is dead and buried. Besides! I have-I think-a dozen children." Bors seemed to cock his head, trying to count them in his mind.

"Eleven." Gawain corrected.

"You listen, when the Romans leave here; we'll have the run of all this place. I'll be governing my own village, and Dagonet will be my personal guard and ass kisser. Won't you Dag?" Bors shouted back to the quiet giant of a man that followed them. He simply remained quiet though, a small smile on his face, tension across his shoulders and forehead.

"First thing I will do when I get home is find myself a beautiful Sarmatian woman to wed." Gawain tried painting his own perfect future, trying to imagine the woman that might be waiting for him.

"A beautiful Sarmatian woman?" Bors asked. "Why'd you think we left in the first place?" He let a great moo then, drawing the laughter of all the knights around them, including Lancelot, who had fallen back from where he rode next to Arthur.

"Well," Lancelot shot a smirk across the husky man toward Gawain. "If this woman of Gawain's is as beautiful as he claims, I expect to be spending a lot of time at Gawain's house. His wife will welcome the company." It was a joke of course, one that had been made over and over again by the stoic knight.

They all had their ways of dealing with both their removal from their home and the lack of a life they had. Gawain killed, drank, and made merry with any who would join him. Bors made children and was entirely too loud. Lancelot laid with more women than he had recollection of. Galahad complained and dreamt. Dagonet and Tristram seemed only to want the next mission and the one after that.

"I see," Gawain had lost any semblance of a smile, playing along. "And what will I be doing?"

"Wondering at your good fortune that all your children look like me." Lancelot chuckled at the unamused expression on the other knight's face and rode off to again take his position next to their Commander.

"Is that before or after I hit you with me ax?" Gawain asked, voice as stoic as his face. They all knew that they would never raise a weapon against the other in anything but sport. Bors, who seemed to find the entire thing funny, couldn't stop his chuckling.

They all made their way toward the doors, and in the very rear rode the Scout, holding an arm out and letting a high pitched whistle. His hawk cut through the air to land on his arm. "Eh, where you been man? Where you been?" He asked, stroking the underside of the bird's chin.

At the front of the parade, Lancelot and Arthur rode, talking of their futures. "You should visit me." Arthur spoke the words knowing the response they would elicit. Lancelot scoffed. "It is a magnificent place Rome. Ordered. Civilized. Advanced." Lancelot watched as the far off look crossed his commander's face. Lancelot had to wonder how the man could still have such an idealistic view of Rome. Wasn't it Rome that took them all from their homes?

"The breeding ground of arrogant fools?" Lancelot asked jokingly. He knew how his Commander felt about Rome, he simply couldn't muster the ability to feel the same. He didn't hear the response he was given, but instead changed the tone. "And the women?" Lancelot asked with a smile, as fake as he could muster. They both laughed and rode on, Hadrian's wall in their sights.

...

When Arthur left the company of Bishop Germanus he was decidedly annoyed. His men had gone on that last mission thinking that it was, in fact, their last. With the danger and demand that this new order provided, Arthur could not guarantee that all of his men remained alive to collect their papers.

The scene he came upon when he went to the tavern to tell his men the news-for it was best to tell them now before they laid themselves drunk-was one he was had seen often enough. Except this time, Vanora stood in the middle of his knights, singing the sweetest tune any of them had ever heard. He watched each of his men as they listened to the lyrics. Tristram, who always seemed to be welcome enough on Briton soil sat sober faced. His best friend seemed more lost than anything. Galahad stood, excitement and exaltation on his face. Gawain watched his friend with a little smirk. Bors watched his wife with both lust and love. It was Dagonet that seemed the most effected by the woman's voice.

Dagonet leaned, one arm supporting him on a rafter, watching Vanora sing, holding Bors' latest bastard. The look that Arthur saw on the man's face was something that pained him. Dagonet, the quiet, gentle man who had a killer's strength, looked on at Bors and Vanora like it was something he would never have. Like something had fundamentally changed for him in the past few hours.

Arthur turned to leave, convinced that he would talk the Bishop into sending another set of soldiers. His men were free men. It was Jols that called him back. "Arthur!"

"Arthur!" Galahad was drunk, but the happiness that met him pained the Commander. "You are not completely Roman yet, right?" They had joked about this before, and where as it had once caused comfort, now it did little of the kind.

"Rous!" Bors shouted in jest.

"Knights, brothers in arms." He couldn't help but notice the pride that swelling at his words through the tallest of his men. "Your courage has been tested beyond all limits."

"Yes!" Bors murmured, and Arthur almost stopped himself again. His men thought this was their release. They thought he was giving them a farewell speech.

"But I must ask you now for one further trial." He said the words as quickly as he could, shame at his Rome for making them do this.

"Drink?" Bors asked in jest, still thinking it was a joke.

"We must leave on a final mission for Rome, before our freedom can be granted." He watched his men. Lancelot the most, who stood, angry next to an un-shocked Tristram. Had the Scout been expecting something like this? Had he held such little faith in Arthur that he thought the man would betray them, in the end? "Above the wall, far in the North, there is a Roman family in need of rescue. They are trapped by Saxons. Our orders are to secure their safety." Arthur finished, seeing the sobriety and realization settling in.

"Above the wall is Woad territory." Gawain cautioned, as if he'd already accepted the words. Galahad was more anxious, angry.

"Our duty to Rome, if it was ever a duty." He spat the word at Arthur, as if condemning him with it. "Is done. Our pact with Rome is done." The words were desperate, begging for another answer.

"Every knight here has laid his life on the line for you. For you!" Bors challenged next, pacing. And instead of freedom, you want more blood? Our blood?" The man was shocked, angry and hurt. It was his way of showing that betrayal. "You think more of Roman blood than you do of ours?" The motion of his scout bringing a slice of apple to his mouth distracted Arthur for a moment.

"Bors! These are our orders. We leave at first light and when we return your freedom will be waiting for you. A freedom that we can embrace with honor." Arthur almost felt like he too was waiting for his freedom, waiting to go to Rome, where he was sure things would be different.

"I am a free man! I will choose my own fate!" Bors yelled, slamming a fist into his chest as he walked away.

"Yeah yeah. We're all going to die someday. If it is a death from a Saxon man that frightens you," Tristram trailed off, pulling another piece of apple toward his mouth on a dagger. "Stay home." It was the lack of fear that did it, Galahad was sure, but he was shouting before he could stop himself.

"Listen, if you're so eager to die, you can die right now!" Lancelot came between them, pushing the younger knight's hand down.

"Enough! Enough!"

"I have got something to live for!" Galahad shouted, and he had to believe it, as he turned back to Arthur, because the look of desperation on his face almost undid the Commander.

Arthur waited for the rest of them. "The Romans have broken their word." It was Dagonet that spoke next, and if it had been anyone else, Arthur might have simply turned away. "We have the word of Arthur. That is enough." The faith he had in Arthur almost sent the man mad. "I'll prepare." He walked away then, past a passing Bors, and egged him on. "Bors, you coming?" It wasn't really a question, but it made the man feel as though he had a choice.

"Of course I'm coming! Can't let you go on your own! You'd all get killed!" He spun, pacing again like a wounded animal backed into a corner. His words carried, and he was sure that his lover heard them. "I'm just saying what you're all thinking!" He shouted again, but walked after Dagonet, whispering, "Vanora'll kill me."

Arthur eyed the rest of his knights. "And you Gawain?" He asked the level headed man as he came to stand between Galahad and Lancelot. Tristram had disappeared, off to prepare for the mission in his own quiet way.

"I'm with you." He finally said, pausing a moment to look at the youngest knight. "Galahad as well." By making the statement for him, Gawain felt as though the youngest could keep some of his pride. The boy poured out his wine, and smashed the pitcher with an ironic laugh. Arthur is unable to stand there any longer, and leaves, fleeing to the safety of the stables.

Inside the darkness of the stable, Arthur tries to move the tack and saddle of his horse, but in an angry toss, throws the saddle down, drops to his knees, and starts praying. "Oh, merciful God, I have such need of your mercy now!" He keeps his prayer, not hearing Lancelot come up behind him. "And if in your wisdom that that sacrifice must be my life for theirs, so that they may once against taste the freedom that so long has been denied to them, I will gladly make that covenant. My death will have a purpose, I ask no more than that." For a time, Lancelot stood listening, but at the offering of his own life in exchange for theirs, something primal and angry sparked in the man.

"Why do you always talk to God and not to me?" He asked as Arthur spun around, rising from his knees. "Well pray to whomever you pray that we don't cross the Saxons."

"My faith is what protects me, Lancelot. Why do you challenge this?" The subject of religion had always been one of the things that the two would never agree upon.

"I don't like anything that puts a man on his knees." For a moment, Arthur could see that. Could imagine why Lancelot would fear falling to his knees. In battle, it meant death. All men fell to their knees first, and then to their death.

"No man fears to kneel before the God he trusts. Without faith, without believe in something, what are we?" Arthur replied, but it was a well scripted argument. Something he really no longer felt, simply did.

"To try and get past the Woads in the North is insanity." Lancelot came forward then, with his real argument.

"Them, we've fought before." Arthur narrowed his eyes at his knight. Cowardice had never been something that he'd seen in his face before, but now, something was there coloring his words.

"Not North of the wall! How many Saxons? Hm? How many?" He bowed his head, and for some reason the word _thousands_ echoed through his memory. "Tell me, do you believe in this mission?" He asked, almost begged. If Arthur had told him yes at that moment in time, Lancelot would have followed the man to the Saxon's own country, but Arthur did not. Arthur could not.

Instead he tried another tactic. "These people need our help. It is our duty to them-"

"I don't care about your charge. And I don't give a damn about Romans, Briton or this island. If you desire to spend eternity in this place Arthur, so be it, but suicide cannot be chosen for another!" Lancelot was beyond angry, beyond frightened for his Commander, his brothers in arms, their dreams.

"And yet you choose death for this family?" Arthur asked, knowing that this was not what the knight had meant.

"No I choose life! And freedom! For myself and the men." Lancelot can see the flaw in his words, knows that he is being a coward, and sits down heavily. He would follow Arthur, no matter what the cost, that he knew.

"How many times in battle have we snatched victory from the jaws of defeat? Outnumbered? Outflanked, yet still we triumph. With you at my side, we can do so again. Lancelot, we are knights. What other purpose do we serve if not for such a cause?"

"Arthur, you fight for a world that will never exist, never! It will always be a battlefield. I will die in battle. Of that I am certain, and hopefully a battle of my choosing. But, if it be this one, grant me a favor. Don't bury me in our sad little cemetery. Burn me. Burn me and cast my ashes to a strong east wind."

Lancelot did not wait to see his Commander's reaction to his words, because he knows what they will be. If the man was so moved by the thought of their venture to pray and offer up his own life, Lancelot was sure the prospect of burying one of his men would elicit a far greater reaction.

Dagonet couldn't sleep, which wasn't an odd occurrence before a mission. His mind rolled over what they would be doing over the next few days. Bors was right to be angry. With a woman and eleven children running underfoot, he had something to lose. Dagonet sighed and leaned against the parapet of the top of Hadrian's Wall.

Out in the darkness of the night, there was nothing that stood between him and his fears. While he knew he wasn't an overly attractive man-the scar that split his face made that difficult-he'd always kept to the thought that sometime before he died he would have a wife and sons. He smiled a little at the thought of children fighting over something foolish. Maybe a daughter.

He shook himself from the idea.

He'd always tried to make up for his size and his appearance with his demeanor. He was calm and collected by nature, but his voice had always been harsh and demanding. He'd worked at it when he was younger, and through some miracle was able to school his features and his words to softer tones.

The mission in front of him risked that future though. If he didn't come back-and something in the way the wind felt told him that it was a possibility-there would be no wife. No sons. No daughters. Shaking the thought away again, he pushed away from the parapet. His bed was waiting, and while he wouldn't sleep, it would be far warmer than the chill of the night.

All of the knights slept in the same wing, something about staying close to each other even while they slept. Most of the fires had kindled down, barely casting a shadow out from under their doors, but from under Galahad's the light roared.

Dagonet watched a moment as his shadow paced back and forth. Drawing upon a strength that he didn't know existed, he reached one large paw up and rapped against the wood. He regretted it the moment the door wrenched open and Galahad appeared, glassy eyed and red cheeked. "I've the night before I die for Rome; let me be." Galahad murmured, turning away from the door.

Dagonet pushed the heavy wooden barrier open the rest of the way, leaning into the jam as Galahad paced about before settling heavily on a wooden stool. "We all fear death." Dagonet tried to comfort the younger man, but it seemed to have the opposite effect.

"I'm not afraid!" He cried, lunging to his feet and pacing again. Little half-broken words slipped form his lips as he moved until he finally stopped and turned toward the door. "Dagonet the dull giant!" He cried, moving forward as if to attack. "The word of Arthur! Well we can't all be as brave as you, Dagonet!" He growled the other man's name.

"Arthur has never lied to you, Galahad. Why question him now?" At the question the younger man deflated visible as he collapsed against the foot of his bed, head hung in his hands. For a moment the larger man thought he was going to pull his hair from his head.

"Because I am a coward." Galahad murmured to the floor. They stood in silence for a time before Dagonet pushed his weight away from the door jam and crossed the room in a few strides to drop his hand on the man's shoulder.

"We're all cowards when we think." Dagonet reasoned and turned to leave. He paused in the door. "You would not still be here if you were." He left the youngest in his fear. In the morning, they would glance at each other, and when neither looked at the other differently, normalcy would reign.


	3. The Lady Burns Woad

Author's Note: If you haven't figured it out by now, I am adding a more in depth exploration of the characters. Here you get a new scene...I think for the first time. I can't recall really. I know there is a new non-canon scene, so I hope you enjoy it.

**Chapter Three: The Lady Burns Woad**

**Warnings: **Tristram being freaking awesome, Paganistic practices.

As usual, the knights woke early. Some broke their fast and headed immediately to the stables, polishing weapons and oiling saddles. Bors would have normally been one of the first awake and at the tavern for breakfast. He had other plans though. In his room he rested against the edge of the bed, watching the red head of hair that was half hidden in the blankets.

The night before he wasn't sure if he'd wake to the site before him. Vanora had always been a temper. In fact, it was something that drew him to her. He rubbed his thumb absently across his bottom lip, wincing at a cut there. He smiled at the memory.

"_Bastard!" Vanora had cried, balling her fist up and slugging him in the mouth. "Go then! Go and don't come back!" She yelled spinning away from him in her anger._

"_Vanora, love, we've always known Rome-"_

"_Fuck Rome!" The woman cried, turning back to him, tears running down her cheeks and disappearing into the bodice of her dress. "Forget it. Forget it all, Bors. Just stay." She begged, and in a sob, collapsed to the ground. _

_Bors wasn't entirely sure how he crossed the room, but he knew he'd hauled her back into his chest, mumbling rough words into her ears. This wasn't common ground for them. In the past, Vanora had been angry. She'd even hit him a time or two, but never had she fallen to her knees and begged him to stay. _

_As her sobbing slowed, he relaxed against the foot of their bed, drawing her with him. "I've got a bad feeling." She murmured. _

"_You've always got a bad feeling when I leave, love." He squeezed her slightly, relishing in the love and warmth of her. _

"_It's not you." She murmured, burying her head in his neck and trying not to start crying again. "I'm used to worrying about you. It's-"_

"_Shh shh shh love." Bors murmured, resting his chin on the top of her head. "I know. I know." And he did. They'd made plans, hadn't they? All three of them. He hadn't been kidding when he'd told Gawain that they were going to stay. The tall, quiet knight was as much a part of their family as Gilly or any of his other bastards. _

"_Watch him, Bors. I've got such a bad feeling." Vanora asked, and Bors had silently agreed. The big man was far more attached to the other knight than any of them knew. They would live as a family until Dagonet found his own, and when that happened, they would let him go._

"_I will, love." He murmured into her hair and turned her chin up to him. "Now come on. Had enough of them tears, yeah?" He murmured, laying a kiss to her jaw. Sure they'd all made plans. He wasn't about to let the other man ruin them._

Bors watched as the sunlight lit up their little room and Vanora's hair. The largest man pressed a kiss to the red tangled mess and forced himself from the bed. Arthur would be waiting, and the sooner they started this hellish mess the sooner they could...

Bors stared out the window. Plans.

Arthur next saw his knights the following morning. He wasn't surprised to find them all there, waiting for him in the stables. And honestly, if he were telling the absolute truth, he wasn't shocked by the way Galahad watched him as he rode his horse through circles, looping around Arthur, almost a challenge. Almost a statement.

When the Bishop walked into the stable, he was met with a more formal statement. With Bors drawing his blade, Dagonet walking bodily into the man, and Tristan testing the edge of his blade, there was no room for the Bishop to breath, let alone feel comfort amongst the knights.

"To represent the Roman court, my trusted Secretary, Horton, will accompany you on your question." The Bishop informed, rather than requested, and Arthur saw no need to fight on the fact. If the Bishop wanted to sacrifice a Secretary in the name of Rome, far be it from any of the Sarmatian Knights to refuse.

"Jols, find him a horse." Arthur instructed, and the stable master took the man deeper into the stalls. The words between Arthur and the Bishop the night before were not forgotten, and the two men squared off against each other, propriety the only thing keeping them from murder.

"God speed as you fulfill your duty to Rome." The Bishop reminded Arthur always of his duty.

"My duty is also to my men." Arthur offered a remembrance of his own, a warning to have the papers ready and waiting for when they returned.

"Then get them home." The Bishop challenger, and Arthur let him standing there to mount up. His men would not take the lead on this day. It would need to be he that saddled his horse first, that rode from the stable, that exited Hadrian's wall through the heavy gates.

...

Merlin was a patient man, but the Saxons walking through his forests made action itch in his fingertips. If the Saxons wanted a war, the Woads would give them one, but while they had the numbers, Merlin himself was aging. His powers were lessening, and the men and women knew it. They would no longer follow him into war and battle as they had in the past.

It was why he'd blessed the fighter that day against the caravan. He'd told the man his duty of death. He'd nearly challenged the Lady to again walk the Earth, to defend what was her Britannia, but she had yet to do as such. Merlin crouched low around a fire, chanting in the old tongue, trying to coax the Lady from her slumber and to again defend her people. In the past she had demanded blood, warriors, a sacrifice.

He'd made all of those, and still she left the Briton's to defend themselves. The magician was reaching the end of his knowledge. As the fire crackled and the dawn came, he stared into the blaze, and as he did, one face reflected back at him. Arthur. He did not know if it was the Lady demanding the sacrifice of the future Kind of Briton or if she was showing him the future, but Merlin was no fool. His Woads would not kill Arthur, nor would they endanger their knights further.

One of his men ran up to his fire, throwing a Saxon blade down at his feet. He was sure the man had said something else, but it was lost on the Magician as he picked the blade up and dismissed the man. With another ancient word, he threw the blade into the fire, where it crackled and danced. A blue spark rose from the blade, sending a shower of tiny flames dancing away from their center. A steady blue smoke rose from the fire and Merlin cried out with laughter. The Lady was burning the color of woad. His people would be free again.

...

Tristram rode with a confidence that few men had ever seen. Normally. Today though, as they picked their way through North of the wall, the normally telling landscape was as quiet to him as to any of the other knights. Scouting had always been as second nature to him as breathing, but there was a knowledge that came with knowing a land. That knowledge belong to the Woads.

And Woads there were. In the trees. Hiding amongst the foliage. "Woads, they're tracking us." He finally broke his silence after seeing the first of their blue skin. Arthur had demanded their location and Tristram almost sighed. Of course Arthur would want to know an exact location, and of course he had been as oblivious to their movements as his own heart beat. "Everywhere." Tristram thought it was simpler than saying the trees, the foliage, the creek bed to their left.

The chaos that bloomed was different than any other Woad attack the Scout had ever encountered. Normally, their arrows would have been aimed at the rider, to kill and maim, not to hinder and direct. And that was very well what the Woads were doing. Direction, herding, like sheep to some other purpose.

At last, when there was no other way out, Tristram had drawn his bow, pulled the string taught, and then there was nothing. Of course they hadn't disappeared, no, the Scout was better than that. He could still hear them moving through the underbrush, still see their tracks in the mud. Merlin had spared them. The very fact sat sour in his stomach. The Sarmatian didn't like owing his life to anyone, especially an enemy.

"What are you waiting for?" Gawain bellowed at their retreating backs, but they were already gone.

"Inis! Devil ghosts!" Dagonet had shouted, his battle axe in hand. Tristram was inclined to agree, blue as they were. As coming and going as wraiths.

"Why would they not attack?" Galahad asked, and the sentiment was mirrored in all of their minds. Tristram almost commented to the youngest about his lack of tact, the relief in his voice was impossible to miss, but the Scout bit his tongue. Saxons. Woads. Galahad did not want to die. Tristram, while not sharing the sentiment, could not fault him that.

"Merlin doesn't want us dead." Lancelot answered in the end, and a hush fell over the group. As the knights picked their way through the forest, Merlin's eyes watched them reflected in a bowl of water.

A cinder from the campfire he sat beside jumped out, landing with a hiss long the surface, sending ripples and distorting their image. Merlin shook his head, letting the power it took to scry go, and smiled. Of course he didn't want them dead. The Lady was finally awake. Upsetting destiny now would only harm his goals.


	4. The Making of Free Men

Author's Note: I know some of you might not like that I let certain events happen here that occurred in the movie, but the point of this is to explore and continue without cheapening the story line.

**Chapter Four: The Making of Free Men**

**Warnings: **Guinevere and Arthur making eyes at one another; Hints of Homosexuality (or at least Lancelot being rather possessive).

Arthur and his knights rode hard up to the high walls of Marius's estate. For Romans besieged by Saxons, there was precious little keeping them there. Arthur sighed. Again they'd been used for what he thought would be the personal wish of a Roman Bishop.

"Who are you?" The Roman guard called from the parapet.

"I am Arthur Castus, commander of the Sarmatian Knights and by bishop Germanis of Rome, open the gate!" Arthur shouted back, already tired of the formalities dealing with Romans demanded. Half Briton, his blood did little to calm his ire.

Onlookers gathered, pausing in their work to stare openly at the men on horseback. The Sarmatians were well known in their own right, and his name had been spread like wildfire when the first whisperings of Roman retreat had been uttered. Half Roman. Half Briton. Something Arthur wondered if he'd been bread as a means for the Romans to keep a foothold in Briton long after they'd left.

As the gates were drawn back, a fat, jovial Roman walked through them, arms outstretched as if he had been unable to drop them.

"It is a wonder you have come, Good Jesus! Arthur and his knights!" The man reached a sausage like hand out toward Gawain's horse, but the black beast balked away from the hand. "You have fought the Woads, vile creatures!"

The knights shared a somewhat uncomfortable look at the mention of the Britons. "Our orders are to evacuate you immediately." Arthur made the reason for their presence clear, fearing that Marius might demand that they stay on longer only to fight away Woads that threatened to take back their own land. Tristram's sharp ears and eyes scanned the horizon, his attention no longer needed in the immediate area.

Smoke could be seen billowing in the distance, and if he listened just so when the wind-_there!_-Saxon drums. He listened to the way they carried and pivoted to find Arthur, who had strode from his horse to where an elderly man was being publicly punished.

"I'll tell you now! Marius is not a God, and you, all of you, were free from your first breath!" Tristram rolled his eyes at his Commanders' vigor. Of course he took freedom seriously. Wasn't Arthur intimately familiar with their own precarious freedom?

Tristram paid little attention to the conversation that followed. Instead, he goaded his mare along, disappearing into the surrounding forest. Signs of the Saxons met him at every trail. Spurring the dark horse into a rough canter, he returned to find Arthur organizing the people of Marius's estate.

"They have flanked us from the east." He informed the future king of Briton as he approached. "They are coming from the south, trying to cut off our escape. They'll be here before nightfall." Tristram eyed the villagers who barely seemed able enough to pack their things, let alone flee the Saxon menace. The information he gathered spilled out of his mouth almost unbidden for a moment, until his Commander suggested they go south. "East." He corrected, glancing back in the direction he'd come from. "There is a trail heading east, across the mountains. It means we will have to cross behind Saxon lines. That's the one we should take." He paused again, counting heads and trying to make them all make sense. "Arthur, who are all these people?" He asked at length, despite already knowing the answer.

"They are coming with us," Arthur replied, giving the Scout a look that was almost chiding.

Tristram couldn't help but chuckle at the thought of trying to get them all away in time. "Then we will never make it," He informed, glancing to the sky where his hawk made wide circles. Something on the wind caught his ear, and as it grew in sound, everyone stopped to take notice. Saxon drums. The Scout almost swore.

Despite their threat, Arthur would not be moved. From across the field, Lancelot watched his Commander draw his blade and go forward to where two guards were supervising the walling up of a building. _Did he not hear the drums? _ Lancelot asked himself, and fear churned in his stomach for all of them. If the Saxons found them alone or with the knights, the villagers would die.

"Arthur, we have no time!" Lancelot pressed, trying to get his brother to turn back.

"Do you not hear the drums?" Galahad added, and for once, Lancelot felt that the youngest among them was the only one seeing things clearly.

"Dagonet!" Arthur called the burly knight, who leapt from his horse, axe in hand to lay waste to the shoddy layers of stones and mud. As the wall crumbled, the drums grew louder, and Lancelot couldn't help but wonder whether or not they were all going to die there, waiting for Dagonet's strength to burst through the wall. Arthur went through the opening the largest of them had created, and Lancelot followed, swords drawn. Where Arthur went...where Arthur went, his friend would follow.

Outside the tunnel like passageway, Tristram and Galahad stood, blades drawn upon their horses, almost daring the guards to come forward. If Galahad were honest with himself, he would admit that standing alone with the Scout was enlightening. Silence could be far more threatening than any words.

They waited as the Saxons approached, their drums and their foot steps shaking the earth in the failing light. When Arthur burst back through that tunnel, a woman cradled to his chest, Galahad sighed, relaxed into the saddle, and waited. Dagonet came out next, a boy in his arms. It was worth it, he supposed, if his blood meant their lives. The youngest knight shook himself from the thought and helped the two other men care for the malnourished.

"She's a Woad." Tristram's cadence was stronger now, and Galahad wondered if his accent grew thicker when he was worried, because the Scout's eyes kept darting back and forth, from the tree line to their Commander. Bors, who was now astride his own horse, looked down at her, face a mixture of confusion. The girl didn't look Woad. Her skin wasn't dyed, there were no tribal markings on her face. The big man looked at the Scout silently wondering how he could tell.

"Stop what you are doing!" Marius's voice cut through the silence, and Bors chuckled at the scene that played out. No, their Arthur was not completely Roman, at least not yet. The threat he whispered to the man's ear, the set of his shoulders, the grip on his blade. Arthur was a Sarmatian then, even if his blood held none of the same as theirs. They'd raised the boy as much as he had raised them. Religion of the Romans. Carelessness of the Britons. Heart of the Sarmatians. Very diverse, their Arthur Castus.

...

As the townspeople moved through the snow, Tristram couldn't help but wonder why they were waiting. On their horses, with the family in either the wagon or astride their own beasts, they could have made the Wall by now. He himself had ridden half a day's journey at pace ahead and back countless times, always surprised to find that the party had only covered a fraction of the distance.

Each time he returned, he glanced to Arthur, waiting for that self righteous expression to have fled to be replaced with resolution, but it never faltered, so Tristram never stopped. If the Knights were to face their fiercest foe on the last day of their duty, he was going to make sure that it was on their terms, not the terms of the Saxon hoard at their back. And he had seen the Saxon menace.

Each time he came back from forward, he rode aft, eyes trying and failing to quantify the massive army at their heels. The only saving grace was that the army was haphazard, going off in one direction, meandering back. They moved faster than the peasants, but without a Scout to tell them the fastest way, they were wasting time.

A sharp cry pierced the day, and the Scout raised his eyes heavenward, where his hawk played at a dance with a sparrow. Chasing and running. Turning and fighting, chasing and running. She was free, and he almost worshipped that freedom. He was a nomad, his people naturally moving to follow the game across the steppes, but he had been caged. Chained down. To Arthur Castus. To Rome. To the love he had for the other Knights. For he did love them, not that the words would ever form and take on life, but the Sarmatian Scout loved the other men far more than he'd ever loved a woman or an ale or an apple.

Drawing his bowstring taught, he let an arrow sail into the middle of the pack of men, hoping to distract them, but as he fell, the others paused only a moment before passing onward. They were a hard people, the Saxons.

...

Lancelot had never been so drawn to a woman in his life, but if he was being honest, he wasn't sure if it was her or Arthur's fascination that drew him. He'd watched the two watch each other for the better part of a two days ride now, and for the life of him, he wasn't sure which made him more angry: that this Woad was laying claim to Arthur or that Arthur was laying claim to the Woad.

Riding on the other side of the carriage, where he wouldn't be seen by the girl or Arthur, Lancelot listened to their conversation. "My father told me great tales of you." The dark haired knights smiled at that. There were many great tales of Arthur and his Knights.

"Really? And what did you hear?" Arthur replied, too interested, almost digging for a compliment.

"Fairytales." Lancelot drew his horse closer. They were not fairytales. They were battles, bloody and gruesome, won on the edge of a blade. "The kind you hear about people so brave, so selfless that they cannot be real. Arthur and his knights. A leader both Briton and Roman, and yet you chose your allegiance to Rome. To those who take what does not belong to them." Her voice grew dark, and with it, so did Lancelot's expression. What right did she have to challenge this? What right did a Woad have to question the likes of Arthur? He did not choose the Romans. He chose Britannia, he chose his knights and his honor. Could she not see that?

"That same Rome that took your men from their homeland." He could not argue that point, for it was Roman legionaries that came to his people that day. It was a Roman man that he asked for information about the time they would be gone. It was Romans who gave him blade and armor and bow. It was Romans that made him a killer.

"Listen Lady, do not pretend you know anything about me or my men!" Arthur countered, and the dark knight was confused as to why this was what pushed the man over the edge. She was right, was she not?

"How many Briton's have you killed?" She asked, and at this, Lancelot let a snort he wished had come from his horse. How many Britons? How many? His own mind reeled, how many grains of salt in the ocean?

"Animals live! It is a natural state for any man to want to live free, in their own country. I belong to this land." He voice softened with that statement, and for a moment, Lancelot wished he had heard what had been said to set her off so adamantly. "Where do you belong Arthur?" She asked, and the answer came unbidden. He belonged with his men, his knights. Somewhere far from Rome and their poison.

When the flirting started up again, Lancelot spurred his horse onward. He did not want to listen to their foreplay. It turned his stomach. Hadn't they already saved her life? Why now did they have to offer up their Commander to the wiles of the Woad woman?

He found himself talking to that very woman later than night, and for a moment he saw what Arthur saw. Beauty. Radiance. Something in her eye that made him both want and fear her. "Tis a beautiful country is it not?" She asked him, and he almost fell from the saddle.

"If you say so." He replied, taking in the desolation and bitter cold. No, this was not beautiful.

"And where do you come from that compares? The Black Sea? This is heaven for me." She stared out then, and he could see it. She was Woad. She was of the land and the sky and the hearth fire. He understood her then, in that moment. Arthur could protect her people, her land, her devoted Britannia.

Angry, he replied as he always did when uncomfortable with a line of conversation, with flirting and heavy handed suggestion. "I don't believe in heaven. I've been living in this hell, but if you represent what heaven is, then take me there." He leaned low over the saddle, and stared at her, challenging her. Rain fell upon him and he sat upright. "Rain and snow at once," he rolled his head back towards the sky. For a long as he had been away from his people, he could not shake their superstitions. "A bad omen." He meant it to scare her, but her firm stare and the way her lips quirked, made him feel as though she was laughing at him. Mocking.

He left her to ride in the carriage. She enraged him, this woman. And she continued to seek him out. "What was it like? Your home?" She asked again and he had to wonder if she was trying to make a point to him as well. She had already sunk her claws into Arthur. He was sure to stay and defend her people.

"We sacrificed goats, drank their blood, danced naked around fires." He chuckled at her exasperation. She wanted him to stay? Well, he would tell her of the home he would return to. Fingering the carved talisman he was given by his baby sister he went on now, picturing it in his head. "What I do remember, of home: oceans of grass, from horizon to horizon, further than you can ride. The sky, bigger than you can imagine. No boundaries." He murmured, and found that he longed to see it again. Hungered for it.

"Some people would call that freedom. That's what we fight for. Our land. Our people. The right to choose our own destiny. So you see Lancelot, we are much alike you and I." Lancelot had never doubted that. There was a beauty to what she was speaking of, and even though he knew her game, he couldn't stop himself form nodding. "And when you return home, will you take a wife, have sons?"

"I have killed too many sons. What right do I have to my own?" He spoke the words before he even knew he felt that way. He had never made the plans to go back home, as Gawain had. He never saw the appeal to returning to a place you didn't really even remember.

"No family no religion. Do you believe in anything at all?" Death. He believed in death. Bowing his head he had his answer.

"I would have left you and the boy there to die." It was the truth, but it shamed him. And in his shame, she left him to stew. For a while, that was all there was, the knowledge that while he knew Arthur the best, he was the least like the man. He had seen the compassion and the bravery first hand, and mimicked it on the field of battle, but when faced with the cool calculated decision of bravery or cowardice, he had taken the latter. He would have left them there to die.

...

Merlin waded back through the dark and the brambles. Arthur had left him standing there, arm extended, waiting for a reply that would not come. He eyed his daughter and turned away. She had work to do yet.

Back in the forest, he crossed quickly as he could to the lake, frozen and dead. The Lady had always come from deep within the earth, and the deep lakes seemed to be her favorite. Standing alone on the middle of the ice, he listened, waiting for her. Somewhere deep down, the ice gave a crack and churn. He smiled and tossed his head to the heavens.

The Lady was waking. The Lady would rise here, in the ice. She would be as deadly as the cold water beneath his feet.

...

Dagonet was a man of few words and great action. Even in his sleep, he was keenly aware of where his body was positioned, how far he would have to move to get a weapon, and where his weakness lay. The weakness now being the boy, Lucan, who was sleeping curled up in the wagon. A light sleeper by necessity more than nature, the large knight was only dimly aware of the shout of "Seize him!" Before he was body hauled away from the wagon by his legs.

A swift turn, and he had his sword in his grasp, but Marius had already grabbed the sleeping Lucan, held a knife to his throat and was backing away with a grim smile of victory. Fear spurred his sword, and he had nearly rushed the Roman guards when Marius called out.

"I have the boy! Kill him!" And Dagonet froze. He did have Lucan, his little Lucan who had burned so hot, had stayed so silent. He hesitated a moment, and that was all the moment that was needed as an arrow shot through the middle of them, landing square in the middle of Marius's chest. Fulvia, bless her quiet soul, gathered the boy in her arms and turned him away from the sight of the dead man.

Dagonet watched as the Woad woman Guinevere entered, bow held taught, arrow drawn and waiting. He had never owed a woman or an enemy more than he did in that moment. "You're hands seem better." Arthur murmured to the woman who merely shot another warming arrow at the Roman Guards' feet.

Dagonet heard Bors before he saw him. With a great cry of, "Arturius!" He entered on his horse, axe drawn, grim smile of war on his face. "Do we have a problem? Huh?"

"You have a choice, you help or you die." The soldiers watched for a moment, a moment too long in Dagonet's eyes, who was ready for blood. The boy was only seven, maybe eight, and their commander had held him as a shield.

"Here!" Dag had yelled, holding his blade higher, daring them to make another move. Perhaps it was their fear of him or their fear of Arthur, but the guards dropped their weapons.

There was little time to relax before Tristram entered, pushing his horse forward, dropping a large wooden crossbow at Arthur's feet. "How many did you kill?" Bors asked. Dagonet always felt a little off with the ease at which Bors and Tristram could discuss death.

"Four." The Scout replied, and Bors chuckled, hitting his chest and posturing for the guards.

"Not a bad start to the day!" He yelled, growling in the Roman's faces, daring them to make the death count higher.

"Armor piercing. They are close, we have no time." Tristram urged the horse to where Arthur stood, trying to impress upon their Commander the need to move, and move quickly.

"You ride ahead." Arthur ordered, and the Scout merely nodded and did as he was told. They would all die for Arthur's honor. For the first time in his entire life, the Scout had to wonder if it was worth it.

He rode hard for the better part of an hour, Scouting as far and wide as he could, trying to find another path. Anything other than what he had found at first. Anything, but there was nothing. Not a path or trail that the caravan and the peasants could cross. If the knights had been alone, or even just with Alecto and his mother, they might have passed a few other ways, but Arthur would not give up even one of the people following him.

As it was, Tristram eyed the frozen lake with uncertainty. He had crossed such bodies of frozen water before, of course, but never one with such a feel to it. There was a life underneath the ice, a wrathful, angry life that seemed to want to swallow him up.

He heard the caravan approaching, knew that the knights would see him, but he couldn't bring himself to turn away from the icy surface of the lake. There was something there, he was sure of it, beating and writhing, and it called to him. A call more appealing than he cared to admit.

"Is there any other way?" Arthur startled him from the siren spell, and the Scout shook himself.

"No, we have to cross the ice." His words were commanding, demanding, there was no room for argument. He paused at them. He hadn't meant to say them. There were other ways, just not other ways the civilians could go. Too late, Arthur was lending out orders and the rest of the knights were disbanding to do as they were told.

The passage across the ice was nerve wracking, that much Guinevere was sure of. There was something, she felt, calling to her, like looking in the eye of Merlin, except a hundred fold more powerful. More wild. Dangerous. She couldn't pin down exactly why it was different, just that it was. When the Saxon war drums sounded, she leapt from the carriage.

"Knights?" Arthur called in question, and they all seemed to know before he questioned them.

"Well I'm tired of running, and these Saxons are so close behind, my ass is hurting." Guinevere almost chuckled at the crass way the man announced his willingness to fight.

"I never liked looking over my shoulder anyway." Tristram agreed, stroking the underside of his hawk's chin. Dagonet and the Scout shared a rare glance.

"It would be a pleasure to put an end to this racket." Gawain made it sound so simple, as if they would just reach out and steal the drums from the Saxon mass.

"And finally get a look at the bastards." That was what started Guinevere the most. Galahad had seemed like the least warlike among them. Hearing the boy willing to go into battle, willing to fight and die, was more than she could almost bear. With the odd feeling from below, and the knight's speeches, she stood still, shocked into place.

"Here. Now." Dagonet ended the argument, and as he spoke, walking across the ice to Bors, the power beneath their feet flared, bright and brilliant. Guinevere had felt that before. The call of the sacrifice each time her people laid a horse to die for the earth. The knowledge scared her. Was the Earth Mother demanding their deaths? Were the Saxons to own Britannia?

She couldn't help but notice that Lancelot was the only one not to speak. Maybe he was more coward and less knight than she had first thought. When they went to stand against the Saxons, she found herself among them, declaring that they needed another bow.

The drums sounded. The Saxons approached. The earth was still, and for that Guinevere was grateful, exchanging taunting remarks with the dark haired knight as the battle's own energy swathed the land.

Dagonet couldn't shake the feeling of something calling to him as he stood on the edge of the lake, firing arrow after arrow to the ends of the Saxon ranks. He knew the ice wasn't going to break long before Arthur mentioned it. It was something he felt deeper than his ears, something in his bones. Something telling him to do, act, be.

"It's not going to break. Back! Fall back. Prepare for combat!" Arthur ordered, and Dagonet did as he was told. As he stood there, sword in his hand, he glanced down, where his axe was sitting. Even as he dropped the blade for the bulkier weapon, he didn't know what he was doing. He was across the ice, slamming the blade and all the strength he had to offer at one point. One point that seemed to egg him on, taunt him, demand more.

A feeling fell over him as the first arrow pierced his skin. A warmth. A comfort. He would win this day, it told him, and he did, as the ice cracked and another two arrows riddled him. He fell into the water, and as he took his last few breaths, he knew what had called to him. His world faded to black, and there was peace.

Dagonet floated after that. Something warm and soft was pressed to his back, holding him in place with a gentle sway of the Earth. At first he thought it was a horse, perhaps he wasn't dead afterall? Perhaps he was slung over the back of a great stallion that was bearing him home? A softness that was no horse moved though, and he realized that it wasn't a horse, but water that rocked him. The form that held him was small, whispering sweet nothings in a tone both soft and powerful. It told him to sleep, relax, and pain no more.

For the first time in his life, Dagonet succumbed to weakness. He was dead before the next rock of the waves.

**Follow up Note:** Rest assured, this is not the last you see of our gentle giant.


	5. Decisions of Free Men

**Author's Note:** And with the ending of this chapter, so ends the movie. I hope that I've caught your attention with the additions and the writing style. The next chapter you get (expect it in about two days or so) will continue onward from where the movie left off. After that, updates will be more likely weekly, as I will need to send each chapter to my lovely Beta Reader.

**Chapter Five: The Decisions of Free Men**

The caravan met Bishop Germanus at the stables. The grey haired man extended his hands forth in excitement at seeing Alecto step from the carriage. His joy at seeing the youngest of those they were sent to retrieve was so great that he forgot to ask after Marius. Something Arthur was grateful for. He was in no mood to explain while his man lay dead on the back of a horse.

"Christ be praised! Against all the odds Satan could muster! Alecto!" The bishop cried, coming forward, hands out to try and grab the boy. Alecto simple shied away, visible measures of fear and detestation on his face. "Let me see you. You are here!" Alecto continued to avoid the man, only to be saved by the distraction young Lucan provided as he ran to the horse that held Dagonet's body.

Lucan did not know what happened after he was escorted away from the arena like stable. He did not hear Bors shout out in rage. He did not see the Scout take the very box that held their discharge. He did not sense the malcontent that seemed to seem up from the very ground they walked on.

He also did not witness the burial. Kept away until the body was beneath the dirt, sword embedded as a marker. He was allowed for the ceremony though, as much as it was.

"Goodbye old friend. We'll be along soon," Gawain murmured as he took the box from Tristram and set it atop his grave. Bors collapsed upon it unceremoniously, pitcher of ale in hand, spilling some into the dark soil.

"Here, drink. Get drunk." He talked to the mound of earth as though it were his friend. The ground soaked up the ale, and for a moment, Bors could imaging his companion at his side, silent and stalwart as a mountain.

For Bors, the time after was a haze of drink and agony finally startled to an end by the arrival of the Saxon hoard. Standing atop the wall, Arthur turned to them all, face grim and stoic as ever.

"Knights, my journey with you must end here." He said it with such finality that none of them thought to question that if Arthur stayed they must go. The only one to question anything was Lancelot, who raced after the man, but Bors was not interested in their petty squabbles. If Vanora and his children hadn't been waiting for him in the tavern, he might have willing himself over the wall, down to the Saxons, and taken as many with him to the grave as he could muster, but as it was, his family was waiting. There were preparations to be made.

Lancelot was almost to his wits end. Arthur, set on a crusade, was walking away not even willing to turn and face the argument as a man.

"And now that we are so close, when it is finally within our grasp, look at me!" He reached out and gripped the man by the shoulder, forcing him to turn and meet his gaze, desperate and begging. "Does it all count for nothing?"

"You ask me that, you who know me best of all?" Arthur asked, eyes disappointed in his friend. Lancelot almost flinched at the tone, but this was far more than saving a few people in a dungeon. This would be their lives. This had to be their lives, if the numbers below meant anything.

"Then do not do this! Only certain death awaits you here. Arthur, I beg you, for our friendship's sake I beg you." And he would have. He would have dropped to his knees, fisted his hands together as Arthur did so often in prayer, and begged. He'd have prayed or demanded or sang if only Arthur would change his mind.

"Be my friend now and do not dissuade me. Seize the freedom you have earned and live it for the both of us. I cannot follow you Lancelot." It was that last five words that truly broke him. Hadn't they talked about after they gained their freedom? There had always been both, never one without the other. Now, faced with that freedom without Arthur, Lancelot had to question what it all was worth. "I now know that all the blood I have shed, all the lives I have taken have lead me to this moment." And they had, Lancelot couldn't fight him on that, so he simply nodded, letting Arthur walk past him, trying desperately to cling to his hand as it was drug across his chest.

When they rode out the next morning, Lancelot kept hearing those words over and over again in his head. There was no quieting them. _I cannot follow you, Lancelot. _Another voice, something deeper, much more primal and demanding asked back: _But why cannot I follow you?_ There was no answer, for there was no reason.

He did not look as the other knights did to see Arthur, standing alone on the hill, and when Bors drew his blade, crossed the twenty yards, and shouted their battle cry, Lancelot still did not watch the man. It was the responding shout, the loudest and most commanding Rous! that the man had ever uttered. He was no Roman. He was no Briton. That day, as he sat stride his horse, standard raised, the war cry leaving his lips, he was Sarmatian, and they had raised him well.

When the Saxon war drums reached their ears, the horses balked. The knights reigned them in, trying to keep the beasts in check. Was it the war drums? Where the great knight's spirits that resided in their chests demanding to turn, face the fight, and live or die by their warlike ways? Was it something deeper, something form the land itself? Tristram was the first to recognize the change.

"Eh! You are free!" He tossed his arm in the air, sending his hawk flying. Bors eyed his children and Vanora. Lancelot simply nodded, finally accepting that the answer to his question was: nothing. Gawain smiled. Galahad, for the first time laughed in ernest at the thought of battle.

When his knights joined him on top of the hill, Arthur felt something inside him swell.

"Knights, the gift of freedom is yours by right! But the home we seek resides not in some distant land, its in us! And in our actions on this day! If this be our destiny, then so be it. But let history remember that as free men, we chose to make it so! Rous!" Arthur shouted as the knights all backpedalled, watching as Tristram knocked and arrow and sent it flying into a tree over the battlements. The lone Roman traitor fell from its branches, dead before he hit the ground.

First blood to the Sarmatian Knights. The war that ensued followed suit, though not so gracefully. Blood and viscera. Bone and flesh, all cleaved in the name of conquest or freedom. Tristram never expected to die an old man, or even a death not born of violence, but as he sat on his knees, head heavenward, he thought perhaps, he'd always expected a death that meant something. He knew the Saxon Commander would move on from this fight, and that was something the Scout was low to admit. His hawk gave a fierce cry as the blade passed through his flesh one last time, and in that exact moment-that moment between existence and non-Tristram was flying. Soaring. Diving. Had he not still felt his knees on the grass, he might have truly believed that he was that bird. A rhythmic song played in his ears, and that was the end.

Lancelot was far less disgruntled with his own death. Here was a cause that Arthur had told him he believed in. Here was a fight of his own choosing. Here was a reason to die. The death of the man that had commanded Dagonet's life be given up somehow made it all the sweeter. He'd saved Arthur's Guinevere. He'd done all he could do to make sure his King-for wasn't he that long before Rome left Briton?-would win this battle and the right to be free. When he rolled to his side, eyes fluttering and mouth muttering something he wasn't even sure about, he could see the rolling fields of grass, the endless skies. He was home. The promise he'd made that day echoed through his memory, but it was too late. He would never again look his family in the eyes. That was something they would have to forgive him.

Lancelot and Tristram were laid to rest nearly a day after the last of the Saxons left living fled. Tristram was buried, his wicked blade at the head of his grave. Lancelot was burned per his request, his ashes allowed to scattered as the winds took them.

As Tristram lay beneath the soil and the fire burned hot, Galahad and Gawain, Arthur and Bors all stood about, their hearts beating in time with a drum roll that seemed to come from the earth itself.


End file.
